As socially inept and unobservant of others as Finch may have been, even he realized that maybe, just maybe, his new best friend wasn’t entirely pleased with him. The fact that he had just made such a brilliant observation, however, pleased Finch; maybe he was actually getting better at this whole interaction thing! It was the raised hackles and the snarl that gave him away, Finch thought smugly, I’d recognize those as anger anywhere. Finch’s mother had been very fond of raised hackles, snarls, and anger (or insanity, Finch had never really been able to tell which).
Anger, Finch decided, watching Red’s furious outburst with an expression of mild-mannered, polite interest, is quite fascinating. I wonder why I never get angry? He considered that question. The only answer, he decided happily, is that I don’t actually care. Or maybe everyone else just cares too much– and has no sense of humor. Finch knew, though, that certain things were expected of you when you upset someone else. He made a spirited attempt to provide them. “I’m sorry,” he said. It didn’t sound particularly sympathetic: sympathy usually required more empathy than Finch could muster. But it was, at least, an effort. “I don’t know what 'Lo es me llamo' means, but did I say something wrong?” he inquired earnestly. His sincerity could have been interpreted as kindness and worry over upsetting another coyote; really, though, it was just curiosity. Finch wanted to know what he had done this time that was so offensive. He found it extremely amusing and fascinating to watch his own bumbling attempts at social interaction. |